Gemotions

He sat on the park bench, watching the leaves fall. The crisp air did little to invigorate him. He should be studying, he should be fighting the accusations. But the energy simply wasn't there. It felt like a battle he'd already lost.

The wind rustled the trees, a constant, mournful whisper. He pulled his jacket tighter around him, the fabric doing little to fend off the cold that had settled deep inside. The accusations, the denial, the eventual punishment – it was a predictable script.

He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, his hand shaking slightly as he lit it. The smoke tasted acrid. He let it burn, watching the ash crumble onto the ground, just another detail lost to time.